


Fallen Angels

by Lady_Therion



Category: Dead Fish (2005), Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Anyelle, Develle - Freeform, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-05-16 01:18:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5807629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Therion/pseuds/Lady_Therion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faced with the threat of losing his club, Danny gets the most unlikely answer to his prayers…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Red Death

**Author's Note:**

> In which Pole!Belle finally makes her debut.

 

* * *

_“The red death held illimitable dominion over all.”_

-Edgar Allen Poe

* * *

 

 

*******

The fact of the matter was that Danny Devine was in the red.

 

How red?

 

“Bleeding scarlet, mate.”

 

Frank flings the hard truth at Danny’s feet like a discarded enema. The world blurs and narrows around him as words like “default” and “overdue” and “repossession” pop off like landmines. He grits his teeth against the onslaught until he can feel a crack in the gold plating of his back molar.

 

“Check the fucking books.”

 

Frank is implacable. “I checked the fucking books. Twice.”

 

“Well fucking check them again!” Danny tears the phone from his desk and flings it at the nearest wall. The impact sends the parts flying over the shag carpeting. “What the fuck do I even pay you for?!”

 

“Danny…”

 

Frank is unperturbed by Danny’s tantrums. He’s been at the brunt of them often enough. The truth is that Frank could walk if he wanted to. Christ knows that there aren’t other loans sharks with bigger teeth and bigger pockets he can leech from.

 

If anything Frank’s pitiable loyalty makes Danny angrier—his blood pressure rises to an unprecedented degree, making him almost the same color as his mulberry suit.

 

“If I wanted to be fucking _chided_ like a fucking _infant_ then I would have gone round to me fucking _ma_ —”

 

“Here.” Frank tosses the black book in question onto his desk. “See for yourself.”

 

Danny doesn’t want to see. More importantly, Danny doesn’t need to see. He knows he’s collected from every junkie, john and coked-up junior exec from here to the fucking West End. He made them pay. He bled them dry.

 

And it still isn’t enough to stave off _the fucking red_.

 

“It’s been like this for months,” says Frank. “Gents aren’t coming to the Parrot like they used to. They got all kinds of exotic watering holes in SoHo now. ”

 

If Danny’s desk wasn’t made of fucking marble, he would have fucking flipped it over. He settles for pounding his fists instead, enough to cut the skin on his knuckles.  

 

“So they’ve changed the fucking scene. Is that what you’re fucking telling me?”

 

Frank shrugs. “The Parrot’s been falling behind the fucking times man. Gents want something different. Something they can’t get anywhere else.”

 

“Can’t get anywhere else?! Do you know who you’re fucking talking to? I am Danny fucking Devine. _The Grand Fucking Provider_. I cater to every kink from femboys to fur cunts! What in the ever loving fuck could these fucking losers get that they can’t get here?!”

 

Frank has no answer to this.

 

“Whatever it is, we don’t fucking have it. So either we rethink our plan or pray for a fucking miracle…and you know as well as I do that miracles don’t come easy for men like us.”

 

Danny scoffs.

 

“Now ain’t _that_ the fucking hard truth?”

*******

 

Belle leaves another voicemail as she leaves the tube at Paddington.

 

“We’re sorry. The number you have dialed is currently unavailable…”

 

“Shite,” she says under her breath. “Gaston…I know you’re there. Pick up the phone. The check you sent wasn’t any good. _Call me_.”

 

The night is cold and unforgiving as Belle makes her way to her flat—well, not so much a flat as it is half a bedroom above a dodgy tarot reader. There are several notices pinned to her door, along with a hastily scrawled note that looks like it had been written in lipstick.

 

“WHERE’S MY MONEY, FRENCH?”

 

Face burning with shame, she leaves the notices where they are.

 

The inside of her flat is only several degrees warmer than outside. The heat has been off since last Tuesday. She flips the light switch and groans. And now the bloody electricity too.

 

There are more colorful notices on her dresser and bedside table. There are red rubberstamps everywhere that seem to dictate the current dreary state of her life: “delayed,” “delinquent” and “overdraft.” She is running out of options. She is falling further and further behind.  

_God, how did I let it get to this?_

 

She slides down the peeling surface of her wall, the rapid intake of her breath the only sound filling up the room aside from the constant wail of police sirens. Her eyes light on her meager belongings: her late mother’s books, her late father’s pocket watch, her poster of the Old Reading Room at the British Museum.

 

There is nothing here that she can sell.

 

_No… that’s not entirely true._

 

There _is_ something that Belle can sell.

 

But it is not something she has thought about since she has…left the scene.

 

With a determined set to her jaw, she roots through her closet on her hands and knees. Buried beneath piles of laundry, she finds an old shoebox. Slowly, tentatively, she lifts the lid, as though she is opening a gateway to the past—and in a way she is.

 

Inside a careful wrap of tissue paper is a pair of six-inch platform heels with golden roses at the ankles. There is also a matching outfit: a top and bottom that could barely pass as a bikini. Touching them again, she feels an electric jolt. Of a person she used to be. Or rather, she _pretended_ to be.

 

_Lacey…_

 

Donning that name again would mean walking the line of a dark precipice that she only just escaped. Can she go back? Can she break the promise she made to herself to lead a different life?

 

There are bills in her apartment that lurk like loaded guns. It wouldn’t be long before the collectors started coming to her in person. And aside from a deadbeat ex, there is no other saving grace for her. She is the veritable orphan in a Charles Dickens novel. She only has herself.

 

So she hugs the shoes to her chest as she whispers, “Do the brave thing.” Then she turns on her used laptop and looks for listings for the local clubs.

 

The first result?

 

The Parrot Club. Seeking new dancers between the ages of 18-32.


	2. Hallelujah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Pole!Belle gets her audition…

* * *

  **P.S.** A reference for Belle’s routine can be found **[here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bOQ0WSwvFbU),** while her song of choice would actually be _Jeff Buckley’s_ rendition [**“Hallelujah”.**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y8AWFf7EAc4) Enjoy!

* * *

 

*******

Belle bides her time in a spacious waiting room just outside the main stage of the Parrot Club. She sits on the edge of a leather couch that curves around the entire space like a crescent moon. There are several other girls beside her, each one more scantily clad than the last.

 

She is the only one among them wearing a cable knit cardigan with tortoiseshell buttons. Beneath that is a plain white blouse with a large bow and a pleated skirt that falls to the top of her knees. Her face is framed by large, square glasses. Her shoes are a very sensible pair of Mary Janes.

 

In short, she looks every inch the little prefect and nothing at all like a professional stripper.

 

This doesn’t bother Belle, however. She’s heard rumors about the ill-tempered club owner and his purpose for holding auditions. There is no reason for her to go “Full Lacey” just yet. If she plays her cards right, there’ll be more of a chance to get the better end of a deal.  

 

“Are you going for a personal assistant gig? This from a tall redhead who sprays bikini adhesive along her spread inner thighs. “I hear the owner’s a wanker.”

 

Belle shakes her head. “No. I’m here to be a dancer.”

 

A few of the other girls pause to look at her with sneers and incredulous expressions. The redhead smiles at her in a pitying way.

 

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

 

“Lacey,” says Belle.

 

“You seem like a nice girl.” The redhead stands to her full height, her platform heels clicking as she makes her way out onto the stage. She winks from over her shoulder. “For your sake, I hope you don’t get it.”

*******

 

“Next.”

 

The blonde on the stage continues to shake her silicone breasts out of sync with a booming electronic beat. The beat pulses in tune with a bitter migraine that pierces through the side of Danny’s skull.

 

“ _Next_.”

 

The blonde doesn’t seem to hear him. Instead, she makes a hard swing to the right of her pole and stumbles into an awkward landing that nearly propels her off the stage. Danny shatters his glass of brandy on the floor.

 

“I said _fucking **next**!_ ”

 

The blonde curses at him in a foreign language as she stalks off.  Danny gives her a two-fingered salute before sinking into his leather cushion of his seat. What he wouldn’t give to be drowning in his sorrows within the comfort of his own office…

 

Frank fixes him with a glum look. “I thought she was nice.”

 

“She’s a fucking liability, that’s what she fucking is.” Danny wipes his hands over his face in frustration. “Just tell me we’re at the tail end of this fucking freak show.”

 

Frank looks at his clipboard. “Just the one. Goes by…Lacey.”

 

Danny rolls his eyes. “Oh for _Chrissake_.”

 

Franks signals one of the bouncers to bring her out.

 

Danny is stunned, his eyes widening.

 

The girl is fucking mousy at best and everything about her practically _reeks_ of middle-class virginity. She is fully clothed, bespectacled and has no fucking tits to speak of. At least none that Danny can see. Danny feels mocked. Danny feels _insulted_. Danny feels like he is looking at the last fucking nail in the coffin of his career.

 

“Is this a fucking _joke?_ ” Spit is flying from Danny’s mouth as he leaps to his feet. “Did you get lost on the way to fucking Sunday school, miss? Do I look like I run a fucking _clergy?_ Do I look like a fucking _archdeacon?_ ”

 

To her credit, the girl doesn’t flinch. Not one iota. Instead she folds her hands behind her back, like she’s on the receiving end of a proper scolding from the pulpit.

 

“I only need five minutes of your time,” she says softly.

 

“Oh aye?” He spreads his arms wide. “And just what makes you think you can fucking convince me?” He presses a hand to his neon green suit pocket. “Newsflash, fraulein: nobody one gets tips for wearing fucking _turtlenecks_.”

 

The girl…Lacey…squares her shoulders and watches him intently. It finally registers with Danny that she is sizing up the black turtleneck he’s wearing underneath.

 

He fruitlessly tugs at his lapels before asking, “Are you here for a fucking loan? Because I got too long a list of delinquents sucking at my fucking teat already.”

 

“I don’t want a loan, Mister Devine. I want to audition.”

 

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” mutters Frank. “Just let her fucking do it, Danny.”  

 

He tugs at Danny’s sleeve until his arse hits the chair. Danny sputters then glares at Lacey as he holds up a single hand. “You have _five_ minutes.” He turns over to the bar. “And get me another fucking drink will you?!”

 

On stage, Lacey looks at the poles on either side of her. She walks up to one and gives it a good shake until they can hear it vibrate in the rafters. She walks up to the other one and lets it turn in the palm of her hand like clay on a potter’s wheel.

 

Danny snarls, impatient. “Is there a fucking problem?”

 

“Can I have a rag?”

 

“A fucking _what?_ ”

 

“Your poles,” says Lacey. “They’re filthy. I need a rag to wipe them down.”

 

Danny sputters as Frank tosses her a wet cloth from one of the side tables. “Here you go, love.”  

 

“Thank you,” she says graciously.

 

Then she daintily removes her shoes and places the rag over her shoulder. Without another word, she lifts herself with bare pointed feet onto Danny’s poles as though she were floating on an invisible spiral staircase. Her pleated skirt trails after her in grey, smoky swirls.

 

_That_ snuffs out Danny’s tantrum.

 

She climbs higher and higher. Pausing every now and then to scrub whatever shite she happens to spot. When she finishes, she _glides_ down as pretty as you please—her legs hooked but not crossed like a fucking fireman. Instead she spins and turns and rolls until her toes alight on the ground like a fucking ballerina.

 

She does it for the other pole too.

 

Frank laughs, delighted.

 

Afterwards, she sets aside the rag along with her shoes offstage. Then she hurries back front and center, removing her glasses and undoing her hair so that it spills over her shoulders in tousled waves.

 

Her eyes are the most vivid kind of blue. Like marbles.  

 

Danny’s mouth goes dry.

 

“I’m ready now,” she says.

 

Frank picks up his clipboard again. “All right. Did you give us your song?”

 

“Yes,” she says.

 

Frank cues the music and the stage dims, putting Lacey into a soft and dreamy focus. For a moment, Danny expects to hear some nauseous blare of acid dance punk, or whatever the fuck sort of garbage the club-goers listen to these days. Instead it is the soft riff of a gentle hymnal.

 

Slowly, she peels off her clothes like she is peeling away her sins.

 

She sinks to the floor, unbuttons her blouse, unravels its bow and slides out of her skirt. Now she is bare, save for a shimmery one piece that gleams in the shadows of the low lights. There isn’t anything camp or excessively sensual in her movements. Instead, everything she does is deliberate and sacred.

 

There are wide arcs, flips, turns and feats of strength belied by grace. Watching her, Danny feels a strange and unfamiliar stillness inside him. Then he realises that what he feels the complete and total absence of anger.

 

It is a fucking _terrifying_ epiphany.

 

As the song tapers off to its last haunting echo, Lacey curls up on stage like the last word of a prayer. Beside him, Danny hears Frank release a breath that he has been holding the entire time. The stage lights brighten and there is loud applause from one or two staff people at the bar.

 

Lacey rises from the stage and makes a smooth bow.

 

If she expects him to do a fucking standing ovation, she has another fucking thing coming. All Danny can do is clear is throat and say, with barely any dignity, “Get dressed…and step into my office.”


	3. Movers, Shakers and Takers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Pole!Belle lays down the law and engages in some serious headbutting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POLE 411: Pole hurts. Like a lot. Especially if you’re a beginner. We call our bruises pole kisses. There is literally no way around them if you want to go pro, so you’ll have to practice desensitizing. This means if you practice the things that hurt you often enough, eventually it won’t hurt anymore. Or at least, they hurt less so that your face doesn’t show it on stage. You know, like how ballerinas do. This means that every good pole dancer (or ballet dancer, for that matter) is as hardcore as a fucking Unsullied.
> 
> This has been a friendly 411 from your neighborhood pole dancer! :)

* * *

 

*******

Belle counts the bumps and bruises in the loo, fingers tracing their size and shape beneath the dull fluorescent lighting.

 

There are three dark constellations shooting across her shins and knees and one red welt between her thighs, spilling down as carelessly as a wine stain on a tablecloth. Still, it’s not so bad as far as pole kisses go.

 

She flexes her fingers, which are too smooth, the callouses not coming back as quickly as she wants. She huffs, knowing it would take time for her body to desensitize again, to remember the pain and shake it off.

 

She washes the layer of grip on her hands and shrugs into her cardigan, wincing at the stiffness in her back and shoulders. Speaking of pain, a hot bath is definitely in order tonight.

 

_If there’s still hot water running in her flat, that is._

 

Belle grimaces once more at the thought of all those red notices, each one an omen of how her life could potentially unravel at the seams if she did not land this job. Fortunately, it seems like she caught the club owner’s interest and her grimace deepens.

 

She had met his type before: all puffed up and power drunk. They had a loud bark, but their bite...well, she would have to see about that. He needs a hard hand, that’s for sure. It didn’t matter how wretched her bank account is, she needs to let him know she wouldn’t be pushed around. There are boundaries to be made; lines to be drawn.

 

Besides, if the rumors are true, then Danny Devine is a desperate man.

 

And in her experience desperate men are much easier to make deals with.

 

***

 

The bird waltzes into his office like she owns the place. Her tight-lipped and imperious expression underlined by her thick specs and bake sale cardigan.

 

It makes his fucking ears burn.

 

“I want to work for you,” she says, all haughty-like, as if _she_ were the one granting him a favor. And _oh_ , if that doesn’t make Danny’s blood boil like a fucking kettle full of earl grey. “But I have some conditions.”

 

“Conditions,” he repeats, showing his teeth. “Aren’t you the little princess, coming in here to make her grand demands on the evil troll?” His voice has taken on a quiet cadence that usually precludes one of his patented meltdowns. It’s made more than the wee lass in front of him tuck in their tails. But no, she stands her ground, her feathers ruffled but otherwise intact. “And what makes you think I won’t turn you away like I did all the others? You’ve got some fancy moves, I’ll give you that. But how I do I know I’m putting my money on the right horse?”

 

“I’m not a horse,” she says, then has the nerve to stare down at him from her nose like a fucking school marm. “I’m a dancer, and from what I’ve heard, I’m your best shot at keeping your club open. You _do_ want to stay open, don’t you?”

 

Fuck him, but she had an _attitude_ . “From what can tell _Lacey_ , I don’t know that you’re worth the fucking trouble or the headache of keeping on.”

 

“ _I’m_ the headache?” she says. “You’re the one who screamed at me not two seconds into my audition and called me a _joke._ ”

 

Danny can feel himself redden, and it’s not because of embarrassment. It’s _not._

 

Belle takes a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry. I know we’re getting off on the wrong foot. But I think we can help each other.”

 

He eyes her balefully. “Oh aye? And how’s that? There’s always other girls. Plenty of other chits in the sea.”

 

She grits her teeth at the word “chits” but doesn’t rise to the bait. “You won’t find a better dancer. In fact, I _know_ you can’t. You know _how_ I know? Because all the pros I ever met are at the other clubs in town: the ones siphoning the money straight from your pockets because they’re wise to fact that it’s the twenty-first century!”

 

“So why don’t you go join them then?!”

 

She lunges for him, grabbing his lapels and presses her face so close to his that they could lock lips if they wanted to. And he doesn’t want to. He _doesn’t_ , all right? No matter how blue her eyes are, or how heady her perfume is or how fucking lush her mouth looks up close.

 

They breathe harshly against each other, caught in a stalemate of boiling frustration. What _is_ it about this girl that _riled_ him up so much? Danny couldn’t think of a time where he was this arse over elbow over a fucking _bird._

 

“I auditioned for those clubs,” she enunciates slowly, like he’s an imbecile. “But I’m not going to join them because they wouldn’t agree to my conditions.”

 

She lets him go and he straightens himself out. Fuck him, but she was a _strong_ bird too. Well, he supposes she _has_ to be in order fucking contort her body in several different positions in midair.

 

“And what are these conditions?”

 

“First? No skin.”

 

“Are you fucking daft? No fucking _skin_ in a fucking gentleman’s club? No wonder those other new age turds turned you away.”

 

“Trust me,” she says, lifting up that stubborn chin of hers. “I won’t need to strip all the way down to get attention.”

 

“Care to wager on that?”

 

“Gladly,” she says, glaring daggers. “But before that, I have two other conditions.”

 

“And they are?”

 

“I don’t take clientele. I’ll do your Main Stage and your VIP Lounge. I’ll do birthdays and bachelor parties. But only if there’s a group and if there’s also other dancers. And security. But I don’t do one-on-ones: nothing that leaves me alone without a bouncer nearby. Understand?” And here her bottom lip trembles as her eyes bore holes into his skull, as if daring him to contradict her like he did the first time. He wants to say something venomous, but he stays his tongue. He knows, on an instinctive level, that she is trying to play tough because she is hiding something...something that might have hurt her. And as brazen as she’s being, Danny decides to leave it alone.

 

For now.

 

“What’s next on your wishlist?”

 

The fire in her eyes simmers down, but doesn’t completely blow out before she slides a piece of paper towards him. “This is how much I want for my time.”  

 

He glances at it, then crumples it up in his fist.“You, my dear, are fucking piece of work.”

 

“Put me on stage tonight,” she says, voice dipping into something deceptively sweet. “I’ll prove it to you: one night and I guarantee you’ll bring in more customers this week than you have all month. If I’m wrong, you can let me go.”  

 

The corner of his mouth turns up. “Is that right?”

 

“Yes,” she says, crossing her heart. “But If I’m wrong? You pay me twice the amount I put on that piece of paper.”

 

His heart plummets somewhere into the pit of stomach. But fuck him if he doesn’t show on his face. “All right then, Lacey. You’ve got yourself a deal.”


	4. Lady Grinning Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For minticetea, whose first forays into the pole world put me in a twirly mood :)
> 
> Inspo for Belle’s routine can be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dsUQl2Y-rD0

* * *

 

 

Kurt Kent is fucking a cunt—about as pleasurable as an untreated hemorrhoid, a chronic migraine and a root canal all at once.

 

But he brings in good money, especially when he’s in a good mood. And given that it’s his birthday, he’ll be over the fucking rainbow with his knob end aiming straight at the pot of gold.

 

Which is why Danny’s sweating balls.

 

“Stop fretting. There’s nothing for you to worry about. Aside from the wager you’re about to lose, of course.”

 

This from Lacey, the _other_ pain in his arse cheek. He’s been waiting outside her dressing room for a little over an hour now. And speaking of cheek, she has the gall to wink at him as she saunters over in curlers, a pink terrycloth bathrobe and matching kitten slippers—Christ almighty.

 

“I’m not fretting,” he says petulantly.

 

“Pacing then,” she says, as she throws a pair of gold stilettos over her shoulder. Her face is done up at least: a little blush here, a little gloss there, a little bit of sparkle and shadow. But it’s still _far_ too proper for the likes of the Parrot and he takes the liberty of telling her so.

 

“First, you come to me looking like Sister Maria. Now, you look like me fucking ma right before Bingo Night.”

 

“She must be lovely then,” is all Lacey says, releasing her curls in the hallway mirror. An errant lock falls against the nape of her neck and Danny is too inexplicably distracted by it to retort with something snide. “Anyway, less is more. Not that _you_ would know anything about that.” She gives his tartan-patterned tangerine suit a once-over and doesn’t say anything else.

 

“Lacey,” says Frank, cutting Danny off mid-snarl. “You’re on in ten. VIP stage is wiped down and ready...and so is the birthday boy.”

 

“I’ll be there,” she says, curtly.

 

Danny reaches for her, hand pressing into her shoulder. “Just a minute.”

 

She glances at him, eyebrow raised.

 

“Kurt Kent…” He pauses, trying to mentally arrange a jigsaw of conflicting thoughts and feelings. “He’s not the worst wanker to walk through my doors, but he does get handsy. If he or his lads start getting rowdy…” He pauses again because he’s not sure that he’s ever had this conversation with any of the girls in his employ. Or why he’s starting now. All he can think about are Lacey’s blue and blazing eyes as she grabbed him by the scruff not hours before, and how she had exposed just a glimmer of vulnerability he could have exploited then and there, but decided not to.

 

He still decides not to.

 

She smiles. “Are you actually being nice to me?”

 

Danny releases her shoulder. “Don’t be fucking daft.”

 

He squirms and avoids her questioning gaze. “Danny,” she says, and he swears he could feel a fucking jolt run through him at the way she says his name. “Thank you.”

 

When she leaves, it’s Frank that pulls him out the fog. “Boss? Mr. Kent is waiting.”

 

“Right,” says Danny, still looking at Lacey’s retreating form. “Right.

 

*******

 

“Danny, you disgusting old twat! What arsehole have you been hiding in?”

 

Danny knows for a fact that he’s only a year older than Kurt Kent, but he decides to let the comment slide because it _is_ the man’s birthday, after all. Still, it doesn’t mean that Danny doesn’t squeeze the man’s hand a little harder than he should.

 

“I could ask the same of you, Mr. Kent. How’s business then?”

 

“Business is grand, Danny. Just fucking grand.” It’s a quarter past midnight and already Kent’s party was pissed up to their ears on Danny’s top shelf. “How about you, eh? I hear the Parrot might be in for some hard times?”

 

Danny bristles. “Just a fucking rumor made by some fucking losers.”  

 

Kent claps him on the back hard enough to dislodge a vertebrae. “I knew it was all shite. There’s not many vintage places like this any more. All those modern clubs downtown are too neon and new agey for the likes of me.”

 

Danny’s face turns dour at the word “vintage” and he ends up ordering extra bourbons for himself.

 

The VIP lounge is set with a little stage right in the center with leather couches all around. There are floor-to-ceiling mirrors on every wall and low curtains of dark silk draping from the rafter beams. And while all of this should be familiar territory for Danny, he still can’t help but feel like this is his first night on the scene, his heart beating a little too loudly in his chest as he tries to coax a client into spending more freely.

 

There is a lot at stake, after all.

 

“All right,” says Kent, rubbing his hands together.“What have you got for me tonight, old man?”

 

“Someone new,” Danny says, leaning back into his chair to drain the last of his drink. He’ll be needing more later, he’s sure. “Someone different.”

 

“Oooh. Breaking them in early, eh? Has she got a nice surprise for me? I’ve been a good boy all year, I’ll have you know.”

 

Except for the few times he overran his tab. Danny grinds his teeth until he’s sure he was stripping the enamel straight off, but takes the edge off his bite when he says, “She’s good, I’ll give you that. So good, in fact, that she’s hands off.”

 

“Eh? What’s that? What do you mean ‘hands off’?”  

 

“It means exactly what I said it means, Mr. Kent,” says Danny, feeling surprisingly smug. “No contact. Also, no skin.”

 

Several of the lads whine and sputter. Kent raises a hand to shut them up like a fucking _lord_. “You mean to tell me that I’m supposed to get my rocks off by just, what, _watching_?”

 

“I’m telling you,” says Danny. “She’s that good.”

 

Kent draws a sharp intake of breath as he curls his fist. “You know Danny, if you and I weren’t such close friends, I’d ask you for a square go right here, right now. It’s my fucking birthday. Don’t I deserve to see some fucking chebs?”

 

“Give her a try,” says Danny, with all the patience of an adult trying to shove vegetables down a toddler’s throat. God, what he _wouldn’t_ do to smash the entitled dobber’s face in with a piece of plywood. “If you don’t like her, I can bring in someone else.”

 

Kent exhales like a flustered bull, but eventually backs off. “For your sake, she better be a fucking goddess.”

 

As if on cue, the lights dimmed to a single spotlight on the main stage. There are low wolf whistles and a smattering of half-hearted applause. Kent sits back in his seat with all the enthusiasm of a student about to watch a documentary on geodes.

 

Then Lacey’s dark silhouette appears.

 

She is one fluid and irresistible shape, dressed in shining heels and a dark two-piece studded with diamonds. She glides around the pole, glancing coyly here and there before settling her eyes on Kent, her blue eyes warm and soft, as if he is the only man in the world that matters. And here, Danny can’t help but feel a sharp prickle of irritation.  

 

Everyone is breathless as she sinks to the floor.

 

Then Frank cues the music.

 

_She’ll come, she’ll go_

_She’ll lay belief on you_

_Skin sweet with musky oil_

_The lady from another grinning soul…._

 

She climbs and spins without effort. Upside down. Right side up. Sometimes with one arm on the pole and other times, no arms at all. And not once, did she ever look tired. Not when she swings her legs out into an impossible arch or sweeps them back into a tight spiral.

 

_Cologne she’ll wear_

_Silver and Americard_

_She’ll drive a beetle car_

_And beat you down at cool Canasta...._

 

As the song draws to a close, she slowly melts into the floor, curling into herself before giving Kent one last, lingering look that spoke of yearning. Not a sexual yearning, but rather, the yearning of one confronted by the crossroads of their past...or some poetic shite like that.

 

“That was beautiful,” says Kent, with a tear—an actual fucking tear—crawling down his cheek. There are more that follow. “Just beautiful. I do love the Starman so...”

 

***

 

They’re in Danny’s office hours later, counting the money.

 

Needless to say, there’s a fuckton of it. A veritable fuckton. With extra.

 

And that’s just for one night.

 

“How’d I do?” asks Lacey, and doesn’t she look like a well-fed cat except twice more satisfied?

 

“You made a grown man cry on his own birthday,” Danny says flatly, feeling the crisp edges of fresh bills glide through his fingers like pure magic.  

 

“Those were _happy tears_ ,” she insists.  

 

He knows that, but he doesn’t want to puff her up even further. “Yeah well...how’d you figure?”

 

“Figure what?”

 

“That Kent was a fucking Bowie fan?”

 

“Oh, that,” says Lacey, crossing her legs. She’s wearing the pink bathrobe again, which Danny is very much _not_ disappointed about. “Instagram.”

 

“Eh?”

 

“Yeah, you can find out anything about anyone these days, even clients. He posted a Throwback Thursday pic of himself at his first Bowie concert last week.”

 

Danny would rather swallow a hedgehog than admit he only really understood about half of what she was saying.

 

“Bowie sang that song on his birthday so I knew it would mean something special to him.” She shrugs. “Looks like it paid off. But ah, taste in music aside, he really _does_ seem like a blowhard. So thanks again for keeping him off me.”

 

“Again, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” and of course Danny cannot look at her while he says this. “Anyway, I’ve, ah, been thinking about your little proposition.”

  
She grins. “You mean my wager? Which you lost?”

 

“Don’t push it,” says Danny. “You can keep your terms and conditions, but just so you know, I don’t give anyone special treatment. So don’t expect any more favors, got it?”

 

Her eyes start to gleam. “So does that mean….?”

 

“Good lord, do I have to spell it out?” He claps his hands down on his desk. “You’re fucking hired, all right? Now get out before I change my mind!”

 

He does not expect her high-pitched squeal.

 

Nor does he expect the quick little kiss she leaves on his cheek.

 

“You’re absolutely awful,” she says, still smiling. “And exceptionally mean. But thank you anyway, Danny. Really.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed the author :)


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